


A Change of Seasons

by Heavy Henry (pelicanna)



Series: Heartbeat [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Victuuri - Freeform, Eventual Smut, F/F, Food Porn, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Nonbinary Character, but not that kind of food porn, can we make that a tag?, metal mila
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-09-01 23:32:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelicanna/pseuds/Heavy%20Henry
Summary: Further adventures in the NOLAverse AU.Bassist Mila Babicheva is a reluctant guest at Victor Nikiforov's Friendsgiving party.  Fortunately, Victor has some very interesting friends.Poor Phichit.  They put up with so much from the rest of these idiots.





	1. A Change of Seasons

Mila Babicheva glared at her reflection, then glared at the outfit that she had laid out on her bed. The outfit was fine. Cute. It would look good on her. Most things did, or at least that’s what her mother and all of her friends said. She frowned at herself again, prodding the soft skin of her hips, hoisting her boobs before letting them fall, smushing them experimentally against her ribs and examining herself in the mirror. _Fuck it_. She ignored the cute and totally holiday appropriate kilt and grabbed her favorite jeans. She would accessorize, femme it up a little. It would be fine. Victor, dapper though he was, wasn’t going to actually expect her to be dressed up. There was a good chance she would be the token uncoupled person even if she wasn’t the token girl, so it wasn’t like she had to impress anyone. She pulled on the jeans and flexed a little bit in the mirror anyway, just to make herself feel better.

Maybe music would help motivate her to get out the door. She tossed Ride the Lightning into her ancient boom box, cranked up the volume, and soon the soothing sounds of “Battery” wafted gently through the room. The idea of staying home was gaining traction. She could stay home and keep her pies all to herself. Tomorrow would be squat day, and she had knocked out a PR at the Turkey Day Race that morning, she could even just go back to bed, or laze on the couch and have a Terminator marathon. _Ooh_ \- she grabbed her gym log - _there, add chin-ups to tomorrow’s workout._ Or, she could get off her ass and stop making excuses. 

For all her good intentions, it was another half hour before she made it out the door. It was a nice day, and she really would have preferred to ride her bike, but the three pies and the six pack of Turbodog would probably be better off in the van. Her late 90s Ram Van was huge and unwieldy and, frankly, ridiculous for city driving. It was, however, very practical for hauling a double bass or the electric and assorted amps and equipment. Until six months ago it had also proven useful for hauling around a bunch of sweaty rugby girls. Her ex-girlfriend had gotten the apartment and Mila had gotten Van by Night. It had been a more than fair trade, even if the van did have a certain lingering _Eau de Locker Room_. 

Mila wouldn’t have wanted the apartment. It had never really felt like her place, anyway. Megs had lived there for more than a year before Mila moved in and had never, other than a couple of token gestures, made any space for her. For the whole eight months of their cohabitation, Mila had felt like a guest. When it finally occurred to her that this was a problem, she was happy to get out with her Kitchenaid and her van, and so tired of arguments that she didn’t particularly feel like trying to bargain for anything else. 

She pulled out of the lot with a sigh. She _really_ didn’t need to think about that now. Mila was smart. She knew that Victor was trying to get her head out of her ass, and she appreciated it, she really did, even if it was a little grating. He was a nice guy, and even if the big brother act was annoying, it was obvious that he meant well. The least she could do in return was show up with her beer and her pies and act happy about it. Thinking about Megs would only lead down the path of more moping. 

It was only a couple of miles to Victor’s house in St. Claude, so she didn’t have too many chances to doubt her decision. It was a glorious fall afternoon, almost too warm for her favorite black sweater. The bright sky was punctuated by a handful of sheep-fluffy clouds. Mila tried to remember whether Victor had a yard or not. She hoped so. 

Mila found a parking spot without much trouble. That probably meant that she was one of the first to arrive. She double checked her phone: yup, definitely the right place. Maybe she should walk around the block. She apparently waffled a little bit too long. 

“Um, hello?” A slight asian man had just stepped out of the door. “Oh, you’re Mila, right?” He was slight, not much taller than she was, and squinted at her through the glare on his glasses. 

“Um, yeah.” She said. This must be the boyfriend. It had been hard to get Victor to talk about anything else for the last couple of, well, it felt like forever, but had probably really only been a couple of months. She felt bad for not remembering his name, since he clearly knew who she was. 

“Oh, sorry, I’ve seen you play. You’re very good,” he squatted smoothly and started prodding at the leaves of the small container garden that took up most of the space on Victor postage-stamp-sized porch. 

“Thanks,” she said, trying to figure out how to carry everything. 

“Oh! Here, let me help!” He jumped up and ran down the walk, tripping over his feet before catching himself. 

She thought Victor had said he was a dancer. “That’s okay, you were obviously in the middle of something. I’ll just make two trips.” 

“That’s okay, I needed a break,” he said, with a sheepish glance at the door. 

“Ah. Is he going bonkers? He’s going bonkers, isn’t he?” 

“He’s a little _extra_ extra today, yes.” He paused, pie in one hand, and gestured at himself. “I’m Yuri, by the way.” 

“Nice to meet you!” _don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it_ , “I’ve heard a lot about you!” _fuck fuck fuckety fuck_. Yuri looked stricken, but rallied quickly. “Don’t worry, all good,” she chirped. 

“Um, yeah.” Well, that was one impression down the tubes. He grabbed two of the pies and closed the door with his hip. She followed him back up the sidewalk. He set the pies carefully on the top step and went back to frowning at the plants. “Let me just grab the...a-ha!” He bent down, gently plucked a leaf and sniffed it thoughtfully. He grimaced. “Hey, Mila? Does this look like basil to you?” 

He held out a leaf of tarragon. “No. _that_ one is basil. Actually, so is that one and that one…” She pointed with her toe. “Did you want Thai basil or Italian or, what is that? Tulsi?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“What’s it for?” 

Yuri shrugged. “I didn’t ask.” He looked worried. She was starting to suspect that it wasn’t uncommon. 

“If he just said basil, then I bet he means Italian.” She shuffled the bag with the beer to her left hand and reached into her pocket. “Here -” she handed him her knife. 

He looked at the rainbow finish, turning it back and forth in the sun, before flicking out the blade and carefully cutting a few stalks of bright green leaves. “Thanks.” He shuffled to the side, and opened the door for her. “Watch the dog.” 

It was a good thing she’d been warned because, otherwise, the excited mountain of brown curls might have bowled her over. Yuri had snuck in behind her and toe-ed off his shoes. “Makkachin, no -” he scolded as he dashed to the table to set down the pies before turning to relieve Mila of her burdens. “I’m sorry about her! There are too many new smells. Victor! I’m putting Makka out!” 

“Aw, Yuri!” 

Yuri rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Victor, either she goes or the pies go.” 

Mila could only understand a little Russian, but she was fluent in mumbled profanity. If she wasn’t mistaken, Victor was saying some very rude things from the kitchen. “Hello, Victor!” 

“Mila baby! You came!” His head popped up from behind the counter. His smile wasn’t quite as Patrick Bateman as she’d expected from the manic tone, but it wasn’t too far off, either. 

“Yeah, I came. Do you need help?” She was pretty sure she heard Yuri mutter “thank you god,” as he dragged the poodle toward the back door. Mila sat on a bench by the door to take off her boots and padded into the kitchen in her thermal socks. “‘Cuz I think your boyfriend needs a minute.” 

“Bozhe moy. _He_ needs a break? Look at this, Mila!” 

Mila looked around the very orderly kitchen. There was no smoke, no spills, no visible disasters of any sort. “Wow, yes, I can see that you have suffered a hideous calamity.” 

“Mila, don’t be snide. My gravy has broken! Everything is now ruined.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Victor. You just started it too early.” 

“All of my beautiful drippings! Wasted!” 

“Oh my god, you ridiculous baby. Get out of my way.” She shoved her way to his fridge. She heard a soft chuckle from the hallway and glanced over. 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said a cheerful voice. “I’m just glad someone else said it.” Yuri had returned from the back door with another guest. “Hi! I’m Phichit Chulanont.” 

“Hi, I’m Mila -” 

“Oh! Yuri, did you forget to get Mila a nametag?” Phichit elbowed Yuri, who hung his head and muttered grumpily in Japanese. “Ignore him. It was Victor’s idea, and I am, personally, a fan.” Mila looked closely at Phichit’s tag. It was neatly lettered in English and (presumably, she was no linguist), Thai. The tags even had a space for preferred pronouns. Phichit had filled in they/them. 

That was actually very thoughtful. So, naturally, she just said, “What a dork.” She continued to paw through the refrigerator, finally locating the mustard behind a large jar of kimchee. “Tell me the truth: he’s actually freaking out because he wasted the whole morning watching the dog show and now his timetable is borked.” 

“I’m right here, Mila.” 

“I know, right?” Phichit replied, with a huge grin as the took a seat on one of the stools by the counter. Phichit was officially the most cheerful human Mila had ever met. “Now, spell your name for me.” They filled it in with neat block letters. “Pronouns?” She stepped to the sink and poured a few drops of water into a small bowl. Phichit sat on a stool just across the counter from the sink. 

“Oh, um, she/her is fine, I guess.” Phichit gave her a look, but just pursed their lips and started to write. Their eyeliner was incredible; a swoop to a subtle wing that was sharp enough to cut glass. It was absolutely symmetrical, and she couldn’t have achieved such perfection with a million years of practice. She might not even have noticed if they hadn’t been so close. She didn’t know what made her say it, “But I don’t really mind if someone gets it wrong. I kinda, I dunno, like it?” 

Phichit set down their Sharpie and looked at her. “How does ‘pronoun indifferent’ sound to you?” _Huh_. That was a new one. 

“That, uh, that sounds fine.” 

“Cool,” they grinned, removing the backing from the tag and passing it over on the tip of their index finger. “Here you go, sir.” 

~~

As promised, a little mustard and water and some vigorous whisking later, and Victor’s gravy was silken and lovely again. He relaxed after that, and made appropriately impressed noises at her pies. Yuri ventured back into the kitchen, to be greeted with a hug and a lengthy apology. He blushed a lot and tried to squirm out of Victor’s grasp. It was adorable. 

A vigorous knocking announced the next guest. Phichit was apparently not fast enough. The door flew open with a bang. 

“Hi, Yurio,” Yuri called as if this was a regular occurrence. 

A scrawny blonde guy stalked inside. He couldn’t have been older than 20 and Mila was certain that she could deadlift him without even trying. Actually, she was pretty sure she could bench press him. He thrust a greasy paper bag into her hands without a word, then stalked back to the door where a serious looking young man was helping an older gentleman wrangle his walker through the door. 

“Dobro pozhavolat, Nikolai,” Yuri pronounced carefully. The kid glared at him. 

“Pozhalovat, Piggy,” he corrected, “Close, though.” 

The older man smiled as he sat in the chair by the door and began to take off his shoes. “Privet, Katsudon, kak dela?” 

Yuri looked frantically at Victor, who just smirked. He grinned wide and gave a double thumbs up, apparently having run out of Russian. “Here, let me take your coats.” 

Mila brought the bag to the kitchen, followed by the third guest. If Yurio was a tiny tornado, this guy was a glacier. She peeked inside and quirked an eyebrow at him. 

He shrugged. “Pirozkhi. They might need to be warmed up.” Phichit handed him a sharpie and three nametags. He nodded seriously and started filling them out. “Otabek!” Victor popped up beside Mila, handing her a baking sheet, and reaching across the counter to grip Otabek’s hand, “So, Yurio did manage to convince you after all!” She started arranging the golden pastries on the pan. 

“Yeah, well, bringing Dedushka and Beka was the only way I could think of to avoid being _completely_ surrounded by idiots.” Yurio groused as he guided his grandfather to a seat on the couch. Otabek shrugged apologetically at Mila and Phichit. He stepped over to Yurio and stuck a tag to his shirt before handing one to Nikolai. Mila couldn’t help but notice that his muscular forearms were completely covered in tattoos. When he turned to her, she noticed that he had sketched an eagle next to his name. That made it click. 

“Oh, Golden Eagle Ink, right?” He nodded. “You do nice work, there. My ex had one of your pieces.” 

“Good. Thanks.” He nodded shortly and stepped away. 

“Hey, Victor! Where the fuck is my dog?” 

“She was banished,” Yuri replied from where he was helping Phichit set the table. “She’s outside with the beer.” 

“C’mon, Beka, you have to meet my dog.” Otabek gave her a half-salute before following Yurio to the backyard. 

Mila caught Victor smiling to himself as he slid the pirozkhi into the oven. 

“What? What’d I do?” 

“Not you. I can’t believe that either of them showed up.” 

“Well, neither of them seem happy about it.” 

“Well, Mr. Altin’s expressions run the gamut of human emotion from A to B. You have to grade on a curve.” 

“And Yurio shows love through snide remarks,” said Yuri, “I’m sorry, Mila. Would you like something to drink?” He gestured toward the back. “There’s beer and wine and fizzy water.” 

“And I have the vodka,” Victor chimed in. A _look_ flashed across Yuri’s face, so fast she wasn’t sure she’d seen it. He jumped up to answer another knock at the door. 

Phichit had no qualms about glaring daggers at Victor, who set his mug aside awkwardly. Since that was clearly none of her business, she took a seat next to Yurio’s grandfather on the couch. He looked over at her, his eyes crinkling in a friendly manner. 

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Mila.” 

He extended his hand. “Nikolai,” he responded in a gruff voice. “Russkiy?” 

She shook her head apologetically, “Bŭlgarski.” 

“Ah.” He pointed at Victor, then mimed playing a guitar. “You?” He pointed at her. 

She nodded and plucked at an imaginary bass. His grin lifted the corners of his mustache as he gave her a firm thumbs up. Between Nikolai’s Russian and Mila’s rusty Bulgarian they managed a brief and gesture filled conversation. He tried to tell her several things that she never did figure out, but she got that he had been sick but was doing better and that he was deeply proud of his grandson. 

After a few moments, Yurio plopped on the couch next to her, followed by Makkachin. “Oh god. What has he been telling you?” 

“Oh, not much. I _think_ it’s a story about you blowing up a port-a-potty. Maybe.” _Port-a-potty_ had involved a complex mime, and she still wasn’t sure about that. 

He rolled his eyes fondly, “Yeah, he likes that one.” Nikolai patted his grandson’s knee fondly. 

Victor appeared in front of them, wiping his hand on a towel. “Have any of you seen Yuri?” 

Mila shook her head, but Yurio leaned back with a smirk. “He’s out back with Chris and Max,” he hooked a thumb toward the back door, “he seemed kinda annoyed. What’d you do this time?” 

Victor sighed. “Someone yell at me if the timer goes off.” Mila nodded as he slipped on some flip-flops and shuffled outside. 

Otabek appeared with several cans of La Croix which he offered around. Mila accepted while Yurio shoved her over to make room for him on the couch. “So, what’s your deal?” Yurio asked belligerently. 

“I play bass in Victor’s band. What’s _your_ deal?” 

“I’m his dog-sitter.” Mila noticed that, while his left forearm was well on its way to being a solid mass of ink, his right was empty. 

“Did you do those?” She pointed. 

Yurio pushed his sleeve up and wrinkled his nose in judgment. Some of the tattoos were older, one looked like it had been done with a sewing needle, but others were still bright and new. One, a death’s head moth still bore the faint sheen of lotion. He shoved his arm in her face. “Yeah. Gotta practice, you know.” 

“Well, they look good. I’ve been thinking about getting one.” 

“Yeah?” Yurio asked. “Well, you should call me up when you’re ready. I’ll do it, but I’ll charge more if it’s something lame. I did a blackbird for Porko. Here, look,” he commanded, rummaging on his phone. Otabek handed over a business card, which she pocketed. 

“Who’s Porko?” Yurio found the image he was looking for and thrust his phone at her. Apparently “Porko” was Victor’s boyfriend. The blackbird was inked on his chest, below his left clavicle. Yurio had done a nice job. It reminded her of a sumi-e drawing. “Nice. What’s the story behind ‘Porko’?” 

“He has a nickname for all of his friends,” explained Otabek. 

“Yeah. Yuri is Cutlet, or Porko, or Piggy. Dedushka calls him Katsudon.” 

Mila looked at Otabek. He’d stretched his arm along the back of the couch, behind Yurio’s shoulders. “What’s your nickname, then?” 

“Oh, he’s just Beka. Maybe Boss Man if he’s being a jerk. Huh.” He sat back. 

“What?” 

“I’m trying to decide on one for you.” 

“Aw. Are we friends already, Yurio?” She was touched, against her better judgment. 

“Gross. No way,” he grumbled. “I got it! You can be Babushka.” Nikolai snorted next to her. She gave him a look of betrayal. It was time to start plotting revenge. 

She stood and walked over to Phichit who was busily taking pictures of the place setting. “Need any help?” 

“Ooh, thanks, thanks,” they said, handing her a pile of napkins and a box of wooden napkin rings. They set down their phone and went back to filling water glasses. “I don’t cook, so I have to contribute in other ways.” 

“Well it looks really nice,” Mila said. It did. Phichit had somehow put together a table setting that was somehow fancy without being formal. The selection of plates and cutlery seemed haphazard, but there was an underlying color scheme that united the mismatched serving ware. It looked like a magazine spread. Mila would have to find Phichit’s Instagram. If this was any indication, it would be well worth the effort. She only had six images on her own page. Maybe she should hire Phichit as a social media consultant. 

Conversations from the door drew her attention. Victor and Yuri were back with the remaining guests. Yuri was talking animatedly to Victor and a blond man who looked vaguely familiar. Another guy with shaggy brown hair trailed behind them, holding the door for a woman about Mila’s age. She was smiling, tucking long brown hair behind her ear as she ducked her head in thanks. Her dark eyes flicked up, meeting Mila’s for just a second before turning her attention back to removing her very cute shoes. 

Phichit snapped a picture. “You should make sure they all get name-tags,” they suggested with a wink. She tossed the last napkin at them, but Phichit ducked, laughing. 

She grabbed the last few tags and the marker, feeling silly, and walked over to where everyone was shedding their shoes. 

“Oh, Victor, are you really making this poor child do this?” The blond man asked. “Just because you can’t remember names doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to suffer.” He turned to Yuri, “I shouldn’t say this, love, but he referred to you as ‘Mr. Charming Eyewear’ for weeks.” He made a show of eying Yuri’s form and went on with a leer, “It’s not the attribute that I would have chosen, but…” 

Yuri’s cheeks turned an alarming shade of red, and he scurried off as a timer chimed from the kitchen. The other newcomer grabbed the blond’s elbow and steered him over to Mila. “Enchanté, I’m Christophe Giacommetti,” he said, plucking a tag from her hand. She handed him the marker. “Oh my, aren’t we woke?” He filled in his pronouns and passed the things along to his compatriot who gave Mila a sympathetic roll of the eyes. “Massimo Ragusa,” he said, “But Max is fine. Nice to meet you.” If his air of fond exasperation was any indication, he and Christophe were an item. 

Mila had been mostly relieved after the end of her last relationship, but the thing that could still make her heart hurt was being around those established couples. The easy camaraderie, the inside jokes, that safety of having someone who knew your flaws and still loved you… Not that she and Megs had ever really had that. That’s why she had ended things, after all. She looked away with a sigh. 

“Here,” the brown haired girl was holding out the marker for her, a quizzical look on her face. The nametag proclaimed her name as “Sara Crispino.” Mila took the sharpie and tossed it on a bookshelf. Sara was still looking at her when she turned back to the group. “Oh god, I’m sorry!” She looked away self-consciously. “You just look really familiar.” 

“Oh,” Mila didn’t know how to respond, “you too!” Ugh. why did she say that? That was a lie. Mila was ninety nine percent sure that she’d never seen Sara before. Mila grimaced, which made Sara’s face fall in a very distressing fashion, so she explained, “Sorry! You actually don’t look familiar at all. I don’t know why I said that.” _Oh, what the hell._ “I think I’d remember you.” She hoped it came out okay. Sometimes the line between casually flirty and creepy was easy to overstep. 

Sara’s cheeks went slightly pink and she smiled. The satiny sheen of her lipstick caught the light. She had a dimple on one side. “Okay, but seriously! What do you do?” 

“Oh, I’m a musician. I play with Victor’s band.” That would be the most likely scenario, since this was his party, after all. 

“Nope, I’m a bad friend,” Sara said with an adorable grimace. “I’ve never seen him play.” 

“Oh.” Mila racked her brain. “So, you must know him from -” 

“The library, yup.” 

“Okay, that’s not it. I use the Nora Navra Branch. Gym?” 

“No, Barre Code on Magazine.” 

_Figures_ , Mila thought, “I also work at a bakery, House of Pain?” 

“Victor brings it to work, but I’ve never actually been there.” She gave Mila an impish wink, “I would definitely remember if _you_ brought me carbs.” 

“I guess it will just have to be a mystery,” Mila replied tragically. 

Sara shook her head emphatically and grabbed Mila’s hand. “No. This is going to drive me bonkers.” She led the way to the kitchen. 

“Sara! Mila! Did you get something to drink?” Victor asked as they approached. 

“Fuck that,” Sara said. “We need your help.” Victor’s eyebrows twitched in the way they did when he was was trying to keep a straight face. 

“Language, Sara.” 

“We’re not at work, Victor.” 

“Well, you’ve already told me about time you said ‘shit’ during storytime, so I don’t know what that has to do with anything.” 

Sara elbowed Mila, “Is he like this in rehearsals?” 

“Worse.” 

Victor’s eyebrow climbed even higher on his expansive forehead and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret introducing you two?” Yuri was behind Victor, stifling a laugh with the neck of his sweater. 

“Look, I need to know where I’ve seen Mila,” Sara pleaded. “I can’t remember and she doesn’t recognize me.” 

“Oh, easy.” Victor looked between them with a self satisfied smirk. “Malignant Mass, probably. Or, you played with Goatwhore for a while, right?” 

Mila rolled her eyes and cast a glance at Sara with her tasteful jeans and cardigan. She probably knew what _contouring_ was. She didn’t seem like the typical fanbase for Eyehategod. 

A soft gasp turned her head. Sara’s dark blue eyes were actually sparkling as she clasped her hands to her chest. Apparently the Universe wanted Mila to learn a lesson about books and covers. “Ohmygod, that’s it. Thank you, Victor!” 

“Get your drinks! Food’s almost ready!” Victor called after them and Sara changed course to pull Mila to the ice chest on the back porch. 

“So, did you get to keep the gauntlets?” 

“What?” Mila was trying to decide between an IPA and a Belgian ale. 

“Go for the Matilda,” Sara suggested, peering over her shoulder. “It’s more festive. Ooh! Turbodog.” She grabbed a beer and straightened, her hand soft on Mila’s shoulder. “So, do you still have the leather gauntlets? From Goatwhore, I mean.” 

Mila laughed. “Yeah, I do. I keep saying I’m going to wear my black metal gear to an East Infection show sometime. If Georgi’s gonna do his Goth PUA schtick, then I’ll do things my way.” 

Sara giggled. “Can you imagine? Victor’s head might actually explode.” 

“Which would be _very_ metal.” She looked around. “I’m gonna see if they need any help. Would you…?” 

“Save you a seat?” Sara grinned, “Of course. I’m not _nearly_ done fangirling.”


	2. Gobble Up Your Guts Part 2: Revenge of the Turkey Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, these two are nerdy.

Mila could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, as she returned to the kitchen to help shuttle the meal over to the long table that Victor had set up in the living room. Loaded down with a basket full of warm pirozkhi and cornmeal muffins, she slid into a seat between Sara and Yurio. He grabbed the basket from her arms, and had served himself and his grandfather before her butt had even touched the chair. After a moment’s thought, he grudgingly tossed one of the golden buns onto her plate before passing the basket down to Otabek.

Victor had outdone himself, and Mila felt a brief pang of guilt for giving him such a hard time. It didn’t last long, though, because no sooner had Mila successfully loaded her plate with a weeks worth of carbs, than Victor interrupted, tapping his knife against a can of sparkling water.

”Okay. I see you groaning already, but faster you cooperate, faster you can eat.” He smiled then, not his usual performance smile, either. It was the wide open grin, that Mila had only started to see recently. “First, thank you for coming, and thank you for contributing to the meal. I truly could not have done it without all of your help.” He cleared his throat. “I am reliably informed that it is tradition for the attendees of a Thanksgiving meal to list something they are thankful for.” Mila was sure that the eye-roll was unanimous. She was also sure that she wasn’t the only one who thought it was kind of sweet. “Okay, I go first. This year I’m thankful for life, and love.” He slid his eyes sideways to Yuri, who was, for once, not looking down. They held the gaze until someone cleared their throat. _That_ got Yuri’s cheeks pink.

”Um, okay, my turn?” Yuri looked around, “I guess I’m grateful for how kind and welcoming everyone has been.” He gave Victor a distinct side-eye. “No one told me that speeches were a Thanksgiving thing. I was told that all I would have to do was eat and watch football. I’ve been misled.”

Phichit grinned, “I’m grateful for new adventures!”

Christophe frowned, “ _I_ usually say love, but since Victor stole mine, I will go with new friends.” He elbowed Massimo, “You’re up, _mon amour_.”

”I’m grateful for cats,” he contributed. Next to her, Yurio swore softly. He’d been murmuring softly to his grandfather the whole time. It was only when she caught _koshka_ did she realize that he was translating for Nikolai.

Sara had been fidgeting with her drink, peeling at the label on her beer. “Um, I’m grateful for independence and new beginnings.” Her smile looked a little strained. It was the first time she’d seemed anything other than perfectly cheerful. She caught Mila looking and pointedly shifted her gaze to the plate in front of her.

 _Huh._ “Er, I’m thankful for my bass, my van, and my band.” She raised her bottle toward Victor.

She elbowed Yurio who responded by stomping on her foot. She gave him a feral smile. “Fine. I’m grateful for family,” he grunted before whispering something to Nikolai.

Nikolai spoke up next, in halting English. “I’m thankful for my health.”

Otabek was last, “I am thankful for my work.” He continued, “May we all live our lives, dance our dreams, and sing our own songs.”

Mila wasn’t the only one surprised. Victor, who looked like he’d been planning to say something else, snapped his mouth shut and lifted his glass. Glasses, bottles, and cans were lifted all around the table and toasts were raised in a variety of languages. She couldn’t help but notice that while Victor had toasted his customary “L’chaim!” Yuri had offered a “Za lyubov!” That was adorable.

She glanced back at Sara, who’s heavy mood seemed to have passed. Sara shook out her napkin and laid it in her lap, brushing Mila’s elbow as she moved. “Sorry.”

”No problem,” Mila replied, digging in to the mountain of oyster dressing with a sigh of satisfaction.

The conversation flagged as everyone dug in. In New Orleans, of course, it was not enough to simply eat delicious food. They had to talk about it, too. The discussion turned to recipes and restaurants and meals they’d enjoyed. Sara was telling Mila about the St. Joseph’s altar at her elementary school, which somehow led to her jumping up and dashing over to her purse. She was back in a flash, digging through a small pouch. Mila glimpsed a rosary, several rocks and buttons, and what looked like a disembodied Barbie hand.

”Here.” She pressed a small brown object into Mila’s palm. Her first thought was that it was a stone, but it wasn’t cold like a rock would’ve been. She looked closer.

”Is that a fava bean?” She asked. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but why am I holding a fava bean?”

”It’s a St. Joseph thing. They’re supposed to be lucky.” She shrugged. “I guess I’m a little superstitious, because I’m always collecting good luck charms and stuff. But I always have a couple of beans, so I wanted to share.”

Mila looked at the bean again, rubbing her thumb over the flat side of it. She didn’t know what they were lucky, but it had a nice tactile quality that made handling it soothing. It warmed immediately to her hand. “Thanks. That’s really cool.” 

Sara grinned a little self-consciously. “I’m glad you think so. My brother says it’s childish.”

”Pft. He sounds boring.” Sara frowned and looked away. _Open mouth, insert foot. Good job, Mila._ “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your brother.”

Sara ran her fingers through her hair. Mila caught a whiff of almondy shampoo. “No, he is a little stuffy. I mean, there’s a reason I’m here and not with the _familia_.”

Mila wanted to say something comforting, but it was hard to guess what the right thing might be. She’d known Sara for less than an hour, after all.

Fortunately, Sara shook herself out of it without any interference. “Hey, did I see pie? I _need_ pie.”

Christophe stood smoothly, “Well, someone has to be first, and I have no intention of missing out on anything.” He held out an elbow to Sara, “Shall we?”

She bounced to her feet with a nod. “Mila?”

”Oof. I need a break. Y’all go for it.”

”Bring me a tiny slice, would you?” Massimo requested, holding up thumb and forefinger an inch apart. Chris nodded and ruffled his hair as he passed. Mila couldn’t tear her eyes away from the tempting sway of Sara’s hips as she followed Chris to the kitchen.

Massimo caught her looking and grinned sympathetically. “Had you two met before?”

”No. I don’t know anyone other than Victor,” she said. “I think he took pity on me. I’ve been in kind of hermit mode lately.”

”Oh? If you don’t mind my asking, are things looking up?”

”Yeah. Yeah, I think they are.” She leaned back and patted her belly. “What about you? How do you know everyone?”

”Oh, through this guy,” he looked up as Christophe and Sara returned. Chris passed a modest sliver of pie to Massimo. He’d acquired a sizable slice of pecan for himself. “He graciously lets me share his friends.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “That’s what he says, but they all like him better than me now. God forbid I show up to something without Massimo.”

”Got that right, at least,” Yurio muttered around a mouthful of sweet potatoes. “I still say you don’t deserve him.”

Mila glanced over at Sara. She had piled her dessert plate with a slices of every type of pie Mila had made. Sara noticed her looking. “Yeah, I, uh, don’t mess around when it comes to dessert,” she said, almost apologetically. She took a bite of the chocolate chess. Mila watched as her eyes widened then slid shut. “Oh my god,” Sara mumbled with a sigh that made Mila feel all soft and warm in the pit of her stomach.

”Good?” Mila didn’t like to feel like she was fishing for compliments, but the truth was that few things made her happier than baking.

Sara nodded. “Mmmfff!”

”Oh, do you like it?” Phichit had returned, arms laden with slices of pie. She wondered if they waited tables. “I’m not partial to desserts myself, but this is excellent.”

”Who are you talking to?” Yuri asked, with a smile that was quickly repressed.

”To you. You made a yummy sound so I thought you liked dessert.”

”Oh god. Tell me you nerds aren’t doing this,” Yurio groaned.

”I didn’t make a yummy sound,” Yuri replied with a wink.

”But you did, I just heard it.” Mila joined in. She rarely missed an opportunity for nerditry. Phichit’s smile widened.

”Well, it wasn’t me,” said Victor.

”It wasn’t me,” Otabek added. Yurio looked at him aghast. Otabek shrugged.

”Well, now look here. If it wasn’t you and it wasn’t you…”

Sara didn’t miss her cue. “MMMMMMM,” she growled, mouth still full of pie. “But seriously, this pie is amazing. You made these, right?” She turned to Mila.

”Yeah,” she shrugged. “I like baking.”

”Oh my god. I think I’m in love.”

  
~~  


The party broke up into smaller groups from there. Victor lit a fire in the chiminea on the back porch while Christophe put on the Saints game. Yuri started on the dishes. Mila tried to help, but after a moment he sheepishly explained that she was messing up his system. Feeling slightly adrift, she found herself on the couch with Makkachin’s head on her knee. Her eyelids had just drifted closed when she felt the couch dip beside her. 

Mila was hopeful even while she braced for disappointment. She peeked, just a little. It was already dark outside, but the streetlamp beyond the window had one of those orangey sodium bulbs. It shone through the window, catching in the deep brown of Sara’s hair, while the blue light of the TV reflected the brightness of her eyes. Mila sat up with a yawn.

”Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

”No problem. If I pass out now, it will totally bork my sleep schedule.”

”Oh yeah? I love a good nap.”

Mila scowled. “I love them in theory, but in practice I just wake up all disoriented.”

”Oh, poor dear.” Mila noticed that Sara’s thigh had drifted over to rest gently next to hers. She wondered if Sara had noticed. It was nice. Sara went on, “I kind of like it. To wake up in the dark. I used to nap and then stay up all night. It felt...magical...to wake up in the dark like that. Like I wasn’t in the real world. I would light candles and read, or go out and look at the stars, or watch and old movie.” She sighed. “I haven’t done that in years, though. If I have the time off work, there’s always something ‘productive’ I should be doing instead.” She looked down, and noticed the way her leg pressed against Mila’s. She froze and straightened up. “Sorry.” Mila felt cold.

”No problem.”

Sara stretched and stood. “Well, I’d probably better get going.” She held out a hand. “It was really nice to meet you.”

 _Oh fuck. Say something you dumbass._ “Yeah, you too.” _Not that. What the fuck is wrong with you._ “See you round?”

Sara smiled again. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  
~~  


While her courage had deserted her at the crucial moment, Victor’s party had still had a positive effect on Mila’s mood. Now that the seal had been broken, she didn’t feel quite so reluctant to get out and about. East Infection played a show the following Thursday. Mila stuck around for a couple of drinks after the show, visiting with Victor and Georgi. She usually used her early work hours as an excuse to sneak out early, but it was actually nice to hang out. Seung-il, of course, was long gone. At least coffee was free at work, she thought, finishing the last of her beer.

”Okay, yall. I’m out,” she said with a salute to her bandmates. “Tipitina’s next Thursday, right?”

Victor muffled a belch with his fist and nodded. “I was thinking about having a drummer sit in with us. Can we do a run through on Sunday and, I dunno, Wednesday night?”

”No problem. Just text me the where and when.” She waved as she stood.

The club was on the outskirts of the Quarter, far enough from Bourbon Street for parking to be relatively easy, so she didn’t have far to walk. She had already loaded out her equipment, so she was feeling light and free as she walked down Dauphine. She paused under a streetlight to sort through her ring of keys. A flyer on the telephone pole caught her eye. Between the Ross Perot bumper sticker and a flyer advertising “Big Ass Drafts” at the Boot, her keenly trained eye caught a cat skull and inverted pentagram. She pulled out her phone to snap a picture and had hit the share button before she quite realized what she was doing. Before she could think better of it, she had tapped out a text, and attached the flyer. She wanted to be clever, but she knew that if she gave herself any time to think, she would chicken out.

Corroded Kitten at Southport Hall tomorrow night. Wanna go? \m/  
  
Sorry, short notice, I know.  
  
We could grab food first.  
  
It could be fun.  
  
If it doesn’t work, I’ll catch you some other time.  
  


_Dear god, Mila. just stop._ She stared at her phone for a second, wishing she could take back every single message she had just sent. _Fuck it._ She unlocked Van by Night and tossed her phone into the cup-holder. It took her a couple of tries to get the engine to turn over. She had apparently been cranking the Maiden on her way over, before Bruce was suddenly screaming at an inadvisable level. It was only when she had turned the volume down that she noticed a vibration that wasn’t coming from the engine.

Woe to you Oh Earth and Swamp, for the Devil really wants 2 have dinner with u And to see an all-girl BNWOHM cover band. How did I not know about this?”  
  
Yeah, they’re cool AF. What time do you want to meet?  
  
Let she who has understanding reckon the hour of the meal  
  


Mila snorted.

How about 7:06?”  
  
LOL. I see wut u did there  
  
I thought you’d like that.  
  
Send me ur address. I can drv.”  
  
unless u want 2 meet there. Thas cool 2.”  
  
If you don’t mind? I’m in the St. Ann apartments in the Treme. You know where that is?”  
  
”Google exists. I’m gud.”  
  
Sweet!  
  
ヽ(^。^)ノ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood Freak - Gobble Up Your Guts Part 2: Revenge of the Turkey Monster


	3. The Girl in the Slayer Jacket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date Night!

Mila stared at the pile of shirts laid out on her bed, trying to decide which one to wear. At least she only had to choose between black and, well, black. Well, that wasn’t true, the Rush shirt was blue, but talking about prog was like talking politics with your grandparents. She would save that conversation for, like, the sixth date. She settled on Unleash the Archers and added a snuggly cardigan.

After a moment of thought, she grabbed her gig bag and rummaged. Beneath extra strings, a tuner, a broken strap, and a box of G.I. Joe bandaids her fingers finally found the soft leather of her favorite bracer. It was made of supple black leather that didn’t impede movement on her fretting hand, but it looked cool as hell with its tooled deer skull. She pushed up her left sleeve and awkwardly buckled it on, one-handed. She flexed her forearm; it had been a while since she’d worn it and the leather was a little stiff. She should definitely pull it out more often, she thought, looking in the mirror. It made her feel like a bad-ass. 

She had just shoved her wallet in her pocket when her phone buzzed. She was out the door, locking up and clipping her keys to her belt-loop in record time. She turned and looked down into the parking lot. Sara waved up at her, tucking her phone back into her purse.

Mila dashed down the stairs, briefly worrying if she seemed too eager. Sara’s easy smile put those fears to rest. She looked amazing. Again. She tucked her hair behind her ears as Mila approached.

”So, are Subarus a librarian thing?”

”Huh?” Sara looked a little confused.

Mila gestured at Sara’s car. In contrast to Victor’s sensible station wagon, this one looked _fast_ with a scoop in the hood and big spoiler.

”Oh, you mean Victor’s car.” She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. She done her eyes up darker tonight. Something about the smoky shadow made her eyes look almost purple. “I actually sold him that one when I got this. So, I guess they’re kind of my thing.” She shrugged, “My uncle owns that shop by Bayou St John. They work on a lot of Subies. Micky and I used to hang out there a lot.” She looked kind of glum for a second, but maybe the sun was just in her eyes, because she just put her sunglasses back on and opened the passenger door for Mila. “M’lady,” she gestured with a flourish.

Mila climbed in, not without a roll of her eyes. “So, was your generous offer to drive just an excuse to show off your fancy car?”

”Oh no. You have seen through my plot. Now, however will I impress you?” Sara climbed in and buckled up. The car seemed like it had more gauges than normal. “So, where to?”

”Well, do you like sushi? Hana is on our way there.”

”Ooh. I’ve never been there. That’s sort of behind Camellia Grill, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she started the engine. It was just as well, because the car was louder than Mila had expected. She sat back, enjoying the luxury of being a passenger. It didn’t take her long to notice that Sara was a skilled, if impatient driver. She was soon entranced by watching Sara’s right hand smoothly shifting. The sound of the engine building revs then dropping as she moved up a gear became a soothing pattern.

”My dad used to drive a stick,” she commented. “I would fall asleep in the back seat or read, but I always knew when we got close to home because of the way the car would sound.” She had forgotten that until just now.

”Yeah. My folks always had stick shifts, too. I guess that’s why I like them, now.” She braked smoothly and dropped down a gear to accelerate onto I-10. “Are you from around here?”

”Nah. I grew up outside of Chicago. I’ve only been here about three years. What about you?”

”Born ‘n bred. My family’s been here since, like, the 1880s or something.” She sighed, then gave Mila a wink. “Name an Italian business in town. See if you can stump me.”

”Uh, Brocato’s.”

”Mom’s brother’s wife’s family.”

”Pascal’s Manale.”

”Went to prom with Vincent Manale. C’mon, you can do better than that.”

”Central Grocery.”

”My brother is engaged to Mona Tusa.” Sara’s smile had turned sharp.

”Italian Pie.”

”Nice try! I went to high school with Saffiyah, but they’re actually Turkish.” Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. 

”Wow,” Mila had the feeling there was no right response to that. “You really do know everyone.”

”Yeah,” Sara agreed quietly, her profile darkly silhouetted against the streetlights. She swore softly as a Corolla with no plates swerved into her lane, forcing her to brake sharply. “Dickhead.”

”Wow, people around here really don’t get the whole turn signal thing, do they?” Mila commented shakily, as Sara downshifted to accelerate around him.

”Yeah, it’s a thing. Don’t try to tell me Chicago drivers are any better.” 

”Oh, it’s a whole different style of terrible driving. In Chicago it’s all about aggression. It’s a very relaxed sort of bad driving down here.”

Sara snorted.

  
~~  


They were seated at a cozy booth just across from the sushi bar. Mila grabbed an order slip and a golf pencil. “How do you want to do this? We can go solo, or just get a bunch of stuff and share.”

Sara leaned across the table to see the options. “I won’t lie, I haven’t done this much, so sharing might be good. I’ll try anything, though.” She tucked another errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I never met a food I didn’t like, so I’ll defer to your judgment.” She sat back as the server approached.

”Um, can I have an Asahi?” Mila asked, already fishing her license out of her wallet.

”ID?”

She stowed her wallet while Sara ordered a pot of tea. They returned to poring over the options. Mila took the lead in marking off selections. Sara didn’t veto anything, other than requesting a salad. Their drinks appeared quickly and they turned in their order. Sara sat back, lifting her hips to feel around in the pockets of her tight jeans.

“I’m sorry, I can’t take it anymore,” she said by way of explanation when she saw Mila looking. Mila didn’t feel any need to mention that she was actually mesmerized by the sliver of soft skin above the waistband of her jeans that had been revealed by Sara’s contortions. After a moment, she flopped back down in the seat, triumphantly holding up a rubber band. She gathered her hair into the kind of messy bun that Mila couldn’t have managed with a curling iron and infinite patience. Of course, Mila didn’t possess either one of those things, so maybe it was a moot point.

”Better?” Mila asked. She let her eyes follow the graceful lines of the tendons in Sara’s neck up to the hinges of her jaw. Her ears stuck out a little bit, and it was maybe the cutest thing Mila had ever seen.

If Sara noticed, it didn’t show. “Much. I think you’ve got the right idea. Keeping it short, I mean.”

Mila shrugged and ran a hand through her hair, feeling the soft resistance of the curls give way to the fuzz of the undercut.

”Ooh!” Sara exclaimed. “I’m so jealous. That must be great in the summer.”

”Yeah, I guess so,” Mila said. “It was a decision born of poor impulse control. Now, I kind of want to go all the way, though.”

”Like a buzz cut?”

”Maybe? Or maybe, like, a pompadour. That would be cool.”

Sara nodded, squinting one eye like she was trying to picture it. “You should do it.”

”You think?”

”It’s your hair, so it should be what you want, but it sounds like you want to do it.”

”It would be kinda badass, right?”

”And you’re kinda badass, so it would be perfect.” Sara took a sip of her tea.

”Aw! Thanks.” Mila wondered how Sara knew exactly what kind of compliment she needed to hear. “So, what do you do at the library? It must be nice to sit around and read all day.”

Sara froze for a second before Mila giggled. “You did that on purpose,” she accused. “I’ve _never_ been trolled so hard on a date.”

”Yeah, I’ve heard that rant from Victor a few times. Sorry.”

”I get no respect.” Sara shook her head mournfully. “I guess my title is Reference Associate. It’s just customer service. Nothing actually interesting. Not like what you do.” This wasn’t the first time that Sara had deflected a question about herself. Mila sipped her beer thoughtfully. It was technically a first date, after all. There was no need to get too heavy. With any luck they’d have plenty of time to get to know each other.

They kept the rest of the meal light, talking about movies and music. Unsurprisingly, Sara turned out to be a big reader. Mila had to shamefacedly admit that it had been years since she’d sat down and read a whole novel. Sara tried to reassure her that reading serial killer biographies and horror stories on r/nosleep totally counted, but Mila still felt judged.

That feeling only increased when she learned that Sara had gotten a degree in philosophy from LSU, and had almost gone to Tulane Law School. Mila wanted to ask why she hadn’t, but she had the sense it would turn out to be one of the things they didn’t talk about.

Sara Crispino was a land of contrasts. On the one hand, she talked about her sorority sisters and debutante ball, hiding her laughing mouth behind her perfectly manicured fingers (neatly filed and trimmed, Mila couldn’t help but notice with a little thrill). On the other, she was laughing because they were trying to outdo each other by inventing increasingly tasteless and disgusting band names. After Mila’s suggestion of “Black Santorum,” Sara had laughed so hard that she inhaled the piece of ginger she was chewing which yielded an alarming coughing fit and a case of the hiccups that persisted through the rest of the meal. 

It was hard to reconcile the society beauty with Sara’s earnest correction that, “No, actually the Jonestown cult put the poison in Flavoraid, _not_ Koolaid,” or the fact that she apparently spoke Klingon. “Just a little bit,” she had modestly clarified, offering Mila a hand out of the booth.

They had lingered longer than intended, but Mila had been able to assure Sara that since Corroded Kitten was not known for punctuality it would not be a problem to arrive slightly late. As they joined the line at the door, Mila couldn’t help but notice that Sara was shivering. “Cold?”

”No, excited,” she chirped, stepping up next to Mila.

”You’re, like, vibrating.”

”Really excited?” Sara offered. “Okay, maybe a little nervous.” Her eyes were indeed, huge, darting around as they approached the doorman. He looked at Sara skeptically.

”ID, darlin’?”

”Oh, right,” Sara muttered, rummaging in her purse. A terrible suspicion flashed across Mila’s mind.

”Here,” Mila passed the guy her license and the cover for both of them and held out her right hand for a wrist band. By then Sara had found her ID and followed Mila’s lead, adding her tag to the stylish bangles on her right wrist.

Sara led the way inside. As expected, the band was still setting up, so they made their way to the bar. “So,” Mila commented as they waited to a spot to open up, “do this often?”

Sara’s face crumpled. “Is it that obvious?”

_Nice job, Mila._ It looked like Sara might actually cry. “No, no! You just seem kind of uncomfortable, that’s all.” She rubbed Sara’s bicep in what she hoped was a comforting fashion.

”I’ll have you know that I’ve been to tons of concerts,” Sara protested. “At, you know, the Saenger and the Mahalia Jackson and Preservation Hall.”

Mila snorted. “So, you’ve been to the symphony and the opera.”

”We also saw Wicked,” Sara muttered.

Mila deserved some sort of medal for not laughing, but Sara looked so dejected that she managed to hold it in. “And how was that?”

”Painful. I fucking hate musicals,” Sara said, brightening when Mila wrapped an arm around her waist. They shouted their order to the bartender, brandishing their wrist bands. Beers in hand, they found a corner that was not too cramped. “So, yeah, I haven’t _technically_ ever attended a metal show.”

”Well, I have absolute faith in your ability to rock out.” Mila clinked her bottle against Sara’s. “I am honored to induct you into the Mysterium Metallorum.”

  
~~  


In the sort of unsurprising surprise that Mila was learning to expect from Sara, she rocked out completely shamelessly. She shouted along to every song, then took out her bun and head-banged with enough intensity that Mila worried about whiplash. Then, during _Silent Lucidity_ , she turned to Mila and took her hand. Sara was warm and soft in her arms as they swayed together. The bar was hot and crowded and smoky. The ban apparently hadn’t crossed the parish line, yet. Mila was sweaty and thirsty, and her underwear was riding up in a very uncomfortable fashion. Then Sara leaned her head against her neck, a soft smile on her lips, and Mila would not have moved if Geddy Lee himself offered her a million dollars and a jam session. Sara was still using that almondy shampoo. Mila took a deep breath and pressed her lips to the part of Sara’s hair. She pulled back, her eyes huge and dark, a question in the set of her eyebrows. Mila had never been good at school, but she knew the answer like she knew how to breathe. 

  
~~  


The drive back to Mila’s apartment was quiet, full of a sort of dreamy anticipation. Sara drove like she was dancing, and Mila hadn’t even realized that she was tired until she woke up in the parking lot of her building.

”Oh god. I’m sorry.” Mila sat up, checking her chin for drool. Sara just set the handbrake and smiled at her. _Say something smooth, Mila._ “So, um, here we are.”

”Here we are,” Sara agreed.

”Do you want to come up for a bit? I could make you a cup of tea, or something.”

Sara set her hand on Mila’s thigh, her skin golden in the red lights of the dashboard. She was wearing a silver ring with a large smooth stone that looked black. Mila laid her hand over Sara’s, interlacing their fingers. “Oh, lovely Mila,” Sara’s words were a sigh. She lifted their joined hands and kissed Mila’s knuckles. “You’re going to fall asleep before the water even boils.”

”Am not,” she muttered, the warmth of Sara’s breath and the softness of of her lips all that Mila could feel. Her lungs betrayed her, though, as a yawn crawled from her lips before she could stifle it.

Sara giggled as she stole her hand back to stifle her own yawn. “See?” She turned her body as best she could behind the steering wheel. “Besides,” she said, gently turning Mila’s face toward her own, and searching her eyes, “this part is nice, don’t you think? The anticipation?”

”Yes.”

”I think we should wallow in it a little longer.”

Mila turned her face into Sara’s hand, pressing a kiss into the center of the palm, feeling the fingers flex against her cheek, smiling as she heard a sharp intake of breath beside her. She looked up, daring Sara to look anywhere else. “Okay. It’s a deal. We’ll wallow. Like little pink pigs in mud.”

”I was thinking about baby elephants.”

”We can do that, too,” Mila laughed as Sara pulled her in for a kiss. Less tentative than before, she let herself sink into the sensation. Sara’s pretty even teeth tugged against her bottom lip and her mouth opened on a gasp. She licked at Sara’s upper lip and everything was just so perfect and soft and warm. If she could just keep Sara’s beautiful laughing mouth next to hers, sharing air and yawns and giggles, she would never need anything else.

It was a long moment before they paused, foreheads pressed against each other. “Thank you,” Mila wanted to interrupt for another kiss, but Sara’s hand was firm against her shoulder. “For dinner, for the show.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Mila’s. “For the kiss.” A vibration from the center console drew both of their eyes. “Sorry. My roommate has decided that I need looking out for since…” Sara swallowed and changed the subject again. “She’ll have them dredge the river if I don’t tell her I’m heading home.” She rolled her eyes, but it was obviously a fond sort of frustration.

”It’s okay,” Mila said. “We’re wallowing, right?” Sara nodded. “I’ll see you soon?”

Sara held out her hand, one eyebrow quirked. “It’s a deal.” They shook formally. Sara’s phone buzzed again. “I’m so sorry.”

”It’s really okay.” Mila leaned forward and brushed her lips against Sara’s cheek. “Talk soon, okay?” She climbed out of the car and stepped around to the driver’s side.

Sara rolled down the window, and leaned out. “I had a really good time.”

”Me too. Wallow safe,” she said with a wave and started up the steps.

  
~~  


u still up?  
  
Yeah. Did you get home?  
  
shoulda stayed for t. Her bf is here.  
  
(・.・;)  
  
...yeah...i guess teh messages were warnings  
  
i have looked into the abyss   
  
And the abyss looked back at me and did finger guns (╬ ಠ益ಠ)  
  
(>_<)  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pig Destroyer - The Girl in the Slayer Jacket


	4. Turbo Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> East Infection auditions a drummer, dorkiness increases, and in a completely uncharacteristic move, the author fades to black before the smut.
> 
> This is a short one, I'm sorry. I'm having a bit of a rough patch and am not sure when I will be updating. but I will. Eventually.

”You look chipper today,” Georgi commented, holding the door for Mila.

”What’s that supposed to mean?” She grimaced as she angled her bass through the door, practice amp held awkwardly in her left hand. “You know, if you’re gonna do the whole chivalry kick, you could open the door wider.”

Georgi smirked. “Sorry milady. There’s an awkwardly placed rack of chairs.” He shuffled his nice compact clarinet case to his other hand. She passed him the amp, blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

”Please tell me that you don’t use that on women you actually want to date.”

”You know he only does it to make us twitchy,” Victor commented from where he was setting up.

”I’ll have you know that Anya likes an old-fashioned gentleman.” Georgi replied, a sappy look in his shadowed eyes.

Mila rolled her eyes so hard that they fell out of her head and bounced across the floor. Metaphorically. “Yeah, well, Anya’s a -” Victor cleared his throat meaningfully, “- very talented vocalist,” she finished, teeth gritted. Victor smirked at her. Mila flipped him off.

Mila found an outlet and plugged in her practice amp. Victor dragged over a stool and sat down. “Before we get going, let me make announcement: Seung-il’s abandoning us. He was invited to audition with the Cleveland Orchestra so, understandably, he will be focusing on that.”

Georgi’s face fell. “So he’s abandoning us?” His eyes went very intense. “For Cleveland?”

”Yeah, what’s Cleveland got that we haven’t got?” Mila said.

”An average snowfall of sixty inches and one of the best symphonies in the world.”

”Pfft,” the drummer scoffed from behind a bass drum. Mila approved of his willingness to snark.

”Anyway, I don’t plan to replace him. We’ll find out what happens with only Georgi and me on melody. With the drum, I won’t have to do so much strumming. On that note, Mila, Georgi, this is Leo de la Iglesia. We’re just gonna jam for a little bit, see how things go.”

Leo looked up from where he was chasing a wingnut across the floor. “Hey,” he said with a wave. He was barefoot, wearing jeans that were cut off at the knee to reveal skinny tanned calves. His floppy hair was tied back in a man bun that didn’t stand a chance of lasting through one song. Mila guessed that he was around her age. The nut came to rest by Mila’s boots. She handed it over, and he went back to setting up his cymbals.

They had been rehearsing in unused banquet halls or community rooms at the library, anywhere they could find space. Today, though, they were test-driving a new practice venue, a storage unit in that big complex on Tulane. It was early days, yet, but it felt good to be in a band again, and Mila had found herself pleasantly surprised by how much she enjoyed playing with East Infection. If they were going to keep this up, and especially if they were going to add a drum kit, they would need to find a more stable practice space, and having a place to stash some equipment never hurt anyone.

The change in genres was definitely making her a better bassist, letting her stretch muscles that hadn’t gotten much use in Malignant Mass. They hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but she thought that one thing that made them so good was the combination of their different backgrounds. Georgi had played with the Crescent Klezmer Aces for years, after graduating from the high school marching band scene. He did something with computers for one of the area hospitals and wore his cell phone in a holster. Victor apparently came from a conservatory background in Russia. She wasn’t sure whether he’d come to New Orleans because of jazz or because of gay, but either way, here he was, and despite the accent, she had trouble picturing him anywhere else.

New Orleans was like that. It either felt like home right away and sucked people in, or they floated off after a year or two. It had felt strange and foreign to her at first, with its bright colors and tropical weather, but like mold or a formosan termite infestation, she didn’t think she’d ever get it out of her system even if she moved away.

Mila came up through a series of garage bands playing covers of Pantera and Metallica. School wasn’t Mila’s thing. She’d graduated from high school with a 2.5 GPA but a 1400 SAT. The two had combined to form a scholarship to UNO. Mila lasted a year. Her mother still hadn’t completely forgiven her for moving across the country only over to give up on her academic career, but Mila was happy with her breads and her bass.

She had been fond of Seung-il, but it wasn’t a complete shock that he was leaving. He’d never seemed quite comfortable with the level of shenanigans the rest of them were prone to. She glanced over at Leo. He sure _looked_ relaxed as he tapped his cymbals, making a slight adjustment to the angle. He looked up expectantly.

Victor had finished tuning his guitar he looked around, gathering eyes. “Okay, any suggestions?”

”Let’s give the new guy something fun,” Mila suggested, “How about a weird time signature? Like a 5/4 or maybe a 10/8?” She had no intention of letting Victor run this show. His Django Reinhardt-y Hot Club Jazz almost never used drums. Her life was going to be the most impacted by a sub-par drummer.

”Great! How about Take -” he started.

”Take your Brubeck and shove it, Nikiforov,” she said. Georgi spat a reed across the floor. “Ready, Leo?”

He nodded, twirling a drumstick.

BUM-ba-BUM-BUM BUM-ba-BUM-BUM BUM-BUM-ba-ba. Oh, she liked Leo. It only took a measure for him to figure out where she was going, but then he was right there with her. He swung into the meter change with no problem. It took Georgi and Victor a little longer to catch up, but by the time the got to the 4/4 section, they had figured it out.

”Nerds, both of you,” Victor groused as he somehow managed to fit one of his trademark arpeggios where a Lifeson solo should have been. Georgi started by doubling her bass line, but then he started filling in with some long sustains while Mila chorded what would have been the keyboard bits. It was weird, and it would need a lot more polish if they wanted anyone else to hear it, but it worked as intended. Mila found out what she needed to know.

Victor shot her a dirty look at the end of it. “I thought I had hired a cool metal chick.” He shook his head, betrayal all over his magazine-quality features. “Now I learn she is a prog nerd.” He looked at Leo. “Nice job, though. Now, can we _please_ try _Take Five_?”

They didn’t even need to discuss the decision: Leo was in and celebratory bahn mi could be consumed. First, Victor, who always picked the strangest times to turn into a walking stereotype, materialized a bottle of vodka from somewhere and poured everyone a shot. Then another. Then they dashed across Tulane, laughing at the spring drizzle. Mila jumped gleefully in a puddle, just for the pleasure of seeing Victor’s “stern librarian” face crack into laughter.

They made a raucous group, and Mila was certain that the waitstaff would be happy to get rid of them. They lingered, trading stories about bandmates and gigs as they passed around spring rolls and lamb lollipops. Mila hadn’t thought anyone would top the story of the acrimonious uncoupling responsible for the dissolution of Malignant Mass, but Georgi gave her a run for her money when he got going on a story about the escape room themed Bar Mitzvah he had played at recently. Mila snorted into her tamarind daiquiri as Georgi described the party planner’s panic what the celebrant’s mother got stuck in the escape room just before the dance with her son.

Soon enough, though, the food was gone, and the drinks were drunk. Victor was tapping at his phone with the soft smile that meant he was talking to Yuri. Mila felt something catch, deep in her chest.

”Well, kiddos. I must rescue my beloved from karaoke,” Victor said as he stood, popping one of the lychee candies into his mouth.

Leo snorted. “I bet Yuri’s _loving_ that.”

”You know Yuri?” Mila asked.

”Oh, yeah, from school.” He paused. “Oh, and my ex was in his pole class.”

”Wait. What? Oh my god.” She had trouble picturing Victor’s quiet, serious boyfriend working the pole. She looked over at Victor, quirking an eyebrow, and was treated to the sight of the very tips of his ears turning red.

”You know,” Victor said with a smirk that promised mischief. “I think a spot of karaoke sounds fun. I say we join them.”

”I don’t know, Victor,” Leo trailed off hesitantly.

That stopped him for a moment. Then he lifted a triumphant finger. “You’re right! We should not surprise him. We will ask!” He pulled the phone back out, but instead of just tapping out a text, like a normal person, he started a video call.

”Vitya?” A tinny voice came through the speaker. Someone was singing “Radar Love,” badly. Victor held up the phone to get the rest of the band in the video. Mila waves.

”Hello, Love! Thank you for recommending Mr. de la Iglesia!” Leo gave the screen a thumbs up.

Yuri brightened, then he looked over his shoulder, and he waved someone off. 

“Would you mind some company, or do you just want to go home?”

Yuri looked thoughtful, or worried. It was hard to tell. “Um, were you thinking about coming? All of you?”

“We were thinking about it.”

Yuri grimaced. “Phichit says ‘OMG, tell them they have to come!’ That’s a quote.” He sighed. “It’s not so bad, I guess,” he admitted grudgingly, then his face lit up, “and if you all come, then maybe Phichit will forget that I haven’t sung anything.”

Another voice crowed “Not a chance!” behind him.

Victor chuckled. “Okay. Hang tight. Or is it ‘hang loose’?” The cavalry is on its way.”

“Okay,” Yuri smiled at that and it even looked genuine. “Just be quick. Phichit says they’ll sign up for ‘My Way’ if I don’t sing something soon.”

“We’ll be right there. Sign us up for ‘I Got You Babe.’ It’ll be fine!” Victor swiped out of the call. Mila had opened the Lyft app while they talked. “Kajun’s, I assume?” The storage unit was already proving its worth. It was _so_ worth it not to have to deal with gear tonight.

While they waited, Mila tapped out a new message.

Do you sing?  
  
Bitch, I went to Ursuline. I have sung for the POPE.  
  
I thought you were a cheerleader.  
  
Get you a girl who can do both.  
  
i’m working on it.  
  
!!!!!!!!!!  
  
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
We’re heading for Kajun’s. I’ll make you tea after. Pleeease?  
  
I must be a barbell.  
  
Cuz you can pick me up anytime.   
  
*eyeroll*  
  
No one appreciates my art. ‘Murican Can apartments. I’ll be down in 10  
  


”Thanks for coming out tonight,” Mila said as they watched the taillights of the Lyft disappear down the street. “I had a really nice time.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it? I can’t believe I got Yuri to sing!” Sara slipped her hand into Mila’s as they climbed the stairs to her apartment like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mila didn’t think that she had ever met a human so self-assured. Somehow, between listening to Phichit perform George Michael’s “Faith” - Yuri having successfully talked them out of “My Way” - and listening to the emcee’s expert rendition of “Cabaret,” Sara had discovered that Yuri was a huge Dolly Parton stan. In fifteen minutes, they were onstage performing “Islands in the Stream,” complete with harmony. 

“So, tea for two?” Mila asked as she unlocked the door, casting a wary eye around the front room. Mila didn’t list housekeeping among her skills and she hadn’t planned on company, but one advantage of her recent move was that her laziness and unwillingness to rent a U-haul had combined with her desire to just get _gone_ and resulted in a very successful Marie Kondo-ing of her living space.

“Yes, please,” Sara followed her, looking around her kitchen with interest. 

“Caffeine, or no?” Mila climbed a stool and opened the cabinet. 

“Caffeine, please.” 

She tossed a couple of boxes down to Sara, who caught them and laid them out on the counter, eventually selecting a bag of lapsang souchong and dropping it into the mug that Mila passed her. Their fingers did not brush against each other and Mila felt a slight stab of disappointment. Then Sara lifted those eyes of hers - what color even _was_ that? - and set the cup on the counter behind her with a tiny smirk. “Come here,” she said, leaning against the counter. Mila didn’t need a second invitation.

Sara hadn’t dressed up tonight. She was wearing a pair of slim black jeans and a drapey top the color of wine. She looked kinda like a sexy vampire with her dark hair and bright eyes, and Mila hadn’t realized that “sexy vampire” was _exactly_ her type until this moment. The shirt was light enough that Mila could feel the heat of her skin and the flexing of her muscles through it when she caressed the pretty curve of Sara’s waist. Best of all, she could feel the melting softness of those muscles when their lips touched.

Mila kissed her way from the corner of Sara’s mouth across her cheek to one of those adorable sticky-outy ears. She lapped at the ear lobe and then drew it between her lips, gently teasing at Sara’s earrings with her teeth. Sara made a soft noise and tightened her arms around Mila’s shoulders.

After a moment, Mila drew back. “I’m sorry. We were wallowing, weren’t we?”

“What?”

“You wanted to wallow in the, I don’t know, first date, or something?”

“This is our second date.”

“So we aren’t wallowing anymore?”

“I just made that up. I can define wallowing however I want.” Somehow one of Sara’s thighs had ended up between Mila’s. When Sara leaned forward to whisper in her ear, Mila couldn’t help the way she pressed herself against it, chasing the warm heaviness that beat between her legs. “I think I’d like for the definition to include my head between your thighs.”

Sara laughed as Mila’s mouth collided with hers. Mila let her hands drop, massaging the swell of Sara’s hips and the sweet sweet roundness of her ass. She couldn’t help the grin that interrupted the kiss as she stepped between Sara’s legs and hoisted her up to sit on the counter. Sara giggled as she pulled Mila close again. “So strong!”

“Thanks. I’m trying to impress a girl.” 

”I’m sure it’s working -” Sara interrupted herself with a small giggle as she pressed a kiss to the spot where Mila’s pulse beat frantic beneath her skin. They didn’t talk too much after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judas Priest - Turbo Lover


	5. Chapter for Transforming Into a Slug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mila spent Christmas Eve on her couch with a six-pack of Turbodog, a mammoth plate of nachos and all of the Christmas classics on Netflix. It was sometime after ten and about halfway through Rare Exports when she heard a knock at the door.
> 
> “Fuck you, Karen, the volume isn’t even up that high,” Mila muttered as she padded to the door, her thermal socks slipping on the 70s parquet. She was already so deep in her mental argument with Karen-of-the-super-sensitive-hearing, that when it wasn’t her neighbor, she had to stand there blinking for a couple of seconds while her brain recalibrated.
> 
> “Hey,” Sara said.
> 
> “Hey.”
> 
> “Can I come in? It’s kinda cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a very seasonal chapter, nowhere near the season. You can tell that I had plans that did not come to fruition. Please enjoy Christmas in May. 
> 
> I don't know that I've said this explicitly, but these fics do not take place in the beautiful, bigotry free world of Yuri!! on Ice, just the relatively open-minded and LGBT+ friendly city of New Orleans. I have adjusted the tags to reflect this, but please see end notes for this chapter if you would like more details about that content.

Mila loved Christmas in New Orleans. She got a kick out of the cognitive dissonance of Christmas lights and big red ribbons swathing palm trees inhabited by little green parakeets. She loved to be able to walk around barefoot no matter the time of year, no matter how much it made Victor squirm and warn her about parasites. She firmly believed that her “Rudolph the Red-nosed Gaindeer” tank top was hilarious and wore it to every one of her bootcamp classes in December. She loved the bustle of the bakery, especially the all-night baking session that always preceded the holiday. The whole crew chipped in, bringing snacks and beers and food, and spent the night kneading rolls, rolling babka, and chopping candied citrus for the panettone. 

The thing she was finding that she didn’t love was the way that Sara’s sparkly purple eyes went dull and looked away from her whenever the upcoming holiday came to mind. Mila was at a loss. While no one would say that Mila was great at knowing what to do with emotions, either her own or those of others, she liked to think that she was at least observant. She had noticed the clues, and was well aware that Sara’s relationship with her family could generously be called “tense.” She had also observed that Sara did not want to talk about it. Mila didn’t want to be upset about this. Her logic-brain said that they had only been dating a couple of weeks and that boundaries were a good thing. Her feelings-brain, meanwhile, was wailing _why doesn’t she trust me? I love her so much and we are clearly meant to be together forever as we raise beautiful rat babies with names like Dimebag and Lemmy. When we get married, we’ll have black and blood-red bouquets, and she will walk down the aisle to Silent Lucidity and I’ll wear a tailcoat like mother-fucking Fred Astaire and Oh God, Why Won’t She Tell Me What’s Wrong?_

So when she invited Sara out for cocktails at the Roosevelt, a part of her hoped that Sara would let her in, just a little bit. The Sazerac Bar at the Roosevelt was apparently a Christmas tradition, The lobby transformed into a sparkling forest of birch branches and twinkling white lights. It was a bit too much matchy-matchy, tasteful Christmas for Mila who liked everything a little funkier, but she had to admit that her heart did kinda skip a beat at how fucking pretty and enchanted the whole place seemed. She could picture Sara, probably in some adorable outfit that would somehow manage to be goth-fabulous and seasonal all at once, waving to her from across the room before skipping over to the bar, opening Mila’s gift, carefully curated to be both thoughtful and appropriate for only having dated for a couple of weeks, maybe thanking her with a kiss on the cheek. 

Instead, she sat at the bar, alone. At ten minutes past their planned meetup, she gave in and ordered a sazerac, just so the bartender would stop glaring at her. She pulled out her phone. Her last text, an excited “See you there!” from a week ago stared at her. She slid her phone back into her pocket, feeling pathetic. 

She sipped her drink with a slight grimace, wishing she’d ordered a beer instead. A sazerac had seemed like a more seasonal and cultured option, but it didn’t look like she had anyone to impress after all. Usually the end of the year had her thinking about new beginnings. Right now, it sure as fuck felt like an end. She’d survived worse, though. 

She was trying to fish out a cherry when her ass finally vibrated, making her slop whiskey onto the bar. The bartender continued to look unimpressed as she mopped at it with those useless little napkins and tried to fish her phone out of her pocket. 

Something came up. I can’t make it tonight  
  
Is everything okay?  
  
just family shit  
  
sorry  
It’s ok. Stuff happens.   
  
Ur going to see your mom right?  
  
Yeah, on the 28th.  
  
So ur still around tomorrow and Christmas?  
  
Yeah.   
  


  
There was a long pause after that. Mila could hear her ice settling in her glass.

I gotta go. I’m really sorry.  
  
Is there something I can do?   
  
I wish. Merry christmas, i guess.  
  
You too  
  


With a sigh, Mila tucked the little wrapped box back into her pocket and finished her drink. No reason to stick around.

Funny; the walk back through the sparkling birch forest of the lobby didn’t move her the way it had on the way in. 

~~

Mila spent Christmas Eve on her couch with a six-pack of Turbodog, a mammoth plate of nachos and all of the Christmas classics on Netflix. It was sometime after ten and about halfway through Rare Exports when she heard a knock at the door. 

“Fuck you, Karen, the volume isn’t even up that high,” Mila muttered as she padded to the door, her thermal socks slipping on the 70s parquet. She was already so deep in her mental argument with Karen-of-the-super-sensitive-hearing, that when it wasn’t her neighbor, she had to stand there blinking for a couple of seconds while her brain recalibrated. 

“Hey,” Sara said. 

“Hey.” 

“Can I come in? It’s kinda cold.” 

“Oh, right.” She stepped back to let Sara in, suddenly self-conscious about her pajama pants with the robot print and lack of bra. Maybe it was silly, but she crossed her arms over her chest anyway. Sara wasn’t wrong - it was cold, and her headlights were definitely on bright. 

Sara didn’t seem to notice, coming in and sitting on the edge of the couch. In the blue light of the television, Mila thought her eyes looked a little red. She was definitely on edge, her left knee bouncing as she watched the screen. 

Mila picked up the remote and hit pause. “Hey, are you okay?” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“It’s just that you showed up at my door at ten on Christmas Eve which, not that I mind, but i’m pretty sure that you said you’d be with your family.” She grimaced but soldiered on, “and you kinda stood me up last time.” 

“Yeah. I did, didn’t I?” She sighed and flopped back, pointing her chin at Mila’s hideous popcorn ceiling. “I need a drink,” she said, soft enough that Mila wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear. 

Still, she wandered over to the fridge and grabbed a couple of beers, popping off the tops with her keychain and leaving them on the counter. 

“Thanks,” Sara took a sip while Mila sat beside her. “I like you, Mila. Like, a lot. Like, I even did our synastry charts.” Mila had no idea what that meant, but she just listened. “How old were you when you came out?” 

“Uh, I think I told my mom I liked girls when I was sixteen.” 

“How was she?” 

“Fine. She was worried, I think. Single mom, you know. She started giving me flyers for taekwondo classes.” 

“I’m 26 and I just came out to my family. Sad, right?” Mila shook her head, but Sara went on, “I mean, everybody else knew already. I’m a twin. Did I tell you that?” 

The sudden subject change made Mila’s head spin a little. “You said you had a brother.” 

“I can’t believe I didn’t say that. That used to be the first thing you would find out about me. Of course, we used to always be together. I told him first. Yesterday. Actually, I told him I was gay last fall. He was...not great.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sara waves it off. “He wasn’t shitty, either. Just not _great_. I think he thought I was being trendy. Mickey has very clear ideas about who I’m supposed to be, and they don’t have much in common with who I really am. He pretty much ignored the whole thing and started trying to convince me to take the LSAT. Then he started trying to set me up with his guy friends.” 

“Yikes.” 

“Yeah. so, not great, but it could be worse. I still thought, I guess it’s dumb, but I thought he’d have my back, you know? When i told our parents.” Sara took another sip of her beer and cleared her throat. Her voice sounded thick. 

Mila had always been a sympathetic crier. She hated it, because it made people think they had to stop and comfort her when they were the ones in pain. It didn’t stop her eyes from burning a little. 

“I told him yesterday. I told him I was seeing someone special and that I was gonna tell Mom and Dad. I told him it would really mean a lot to me if he could at least pretend that he was happy for me.” 

“Ah. I’m guessing it didn’t go well?” 

“He’s gonna pray for me,” Sara slumped against her side. “They’re all gonna fuckin’ _pray_ for me.” Mila wrapped an arm around Sara’s shoulders and tugged her close. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to come between you and your family.” She buried her nose in Sara’s hair. 

“It’s not your fault. I was finally ready. I mean, I only met you because I was hiding from Thanksgiving. If my Nonna asked when I’d find a nice boy and get cooking on a great-grandbaby one more time, I knew I would just start screaming about how much I like eating pussy.” 

Mila snorted, “I would pay good money to see you do that.” 

“I guess it would’ve been kinda badass.” She wiped at her eyes and sat up with a sigh. “Ooh. nachos.” 

“They’re cold.” 

“Pfft. Like I care.” 

~~ 

Mila woke up from a dream of getting bitten by a centipede that looked like a blue salamander with pins and needles in her fingers and a crick in her neck. The television was still on the DVD menu of The Thing. Mila guestimated that she had fallen asleep sometime before MacReady blew up the station, but after the scene with the blood samples. Sara was sprawled across her, head pillowed on Mila’s boobs. If the sensation of warm wetness on her cleavage was any indication, Sara was drooling. 

It would have been adorable if Mila didn’t have to piss so bad. She started shuffling, scooching an inch at a time toward the edge of the couch, eventually freeing enough limbs to extricate herself. Sara grumbled as she nuzzled into a pillow, and Mila paused to tuck a lock of dark hair behind her ear before sneaking off to the bathroom. 

By the time she got back, Sara was sitting up, yawning, the sweatshirt Mila had loaned her slipping down over one shoulder. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“S’okay,” Sara said, pulling Mila down to sit next to her, and resting her cheek on her shoulder. “Peeing’s important. Tycho Brahe died from not peeing.” 

“Who?” 

“The astronomer. He had a silver nose and died of an exploded bladder.” 

“That doesn’t sound true.” 

“Look it up. He’s my favorite historical weirdo.” She looked thoughtful, “Except maybe Jack Parsons.” 

“Isn’t that the guy from the Big Bang Theory?” 

“No, the occultist and founder of the Jet Propulsion Lab,” she said, as if that explained everything. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Merry Christmas, by the way.” She turned tipped her face up, then pulled back, slapping a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh god. My breath is probably wretched. Hold that thought!” She darted for the bathroom. 

“I think there’s a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet!” Mila called. She had gotten optimistic on a recent shopping trip. 

While Sara freshened up, Mila started a pot of coffee and rummaged in the fridge. She was measuring flour when Sara returned, minty fresh and with significantly tamer hair. 

“Let me try that again. Merry Christmas,” she said, pressing a kiss to the corner of Mila’s mouth. That wasn’t good enough, though. Mila chased after, capturing Sara’s soft lips with her own, breath layering on breath until she realized that she was in real danger of dropping her mixing bowl. 

“Merry Christmas to you,” Mila replied when they could breathe again. 

“What are you making?” Sara wrapped her arms around Mila’s waist, settling her chin onto Mila’s shoulder. 

“Just some biscuits. Nothing special.” 

“Without a recipe?” 

Mila tapped the side of her head. 

“Wow.” Mila shrugged, liking the way Sara giggled when it jostled her chin. 

“What are you up to today?” She asked before she thought better of it. Sara went still and Mila rushed on, “Because Yuri and Phichit are having a potluck. I was gonna go over later.” 

“Oh, right. They sent me an invite, but I thought - you know. You don’t think it’s too late?” 

“I’m sure it’s not. This isn’t one of Viktor’s shindigs with place settings and centerpieces. I think this is more of a bring a meat to grill and a guitar.” 

“That sounds chill.” 

“Yeah, it should be a small group. I don’t think Yuri does crowds. Hey, hand me that stick of butter?” 

Sara passed it over, tapping at her phone with one hand. “Hey, look up!” She held the phone aloft. “Smile!” Mila leaned in and complied. 

“What was that for?” she asked when Sara went back to typing.

“Oh, just my roomate. She knows I was gonna talk to my family yesterday. She’ll feel better if she knows I’m not alone.”

“You guys are close?”

“Yeah, we’ve been friends since middle school. Hey, I know!” she started typing excitedly. “Since I guess I can’t introduce you to my folks, I can introduce you to her. She and her boyfriend have been wanting to do a couple’s thing ever since I started seeing someone.”

“O-okay, yeah, if they are important to you, then I want to meet them.”

“You free on the 27th?”

“Uh, after, like 4, I think. Make it 5 if you want me to look good.”

“You always look good.” Her eyes darted across the screen. “Have you ever been to Rock ‘n’ Bowl?”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Mila dropped her pastry cutter into the bowl with a puff of flour and flexed. “You can be on my team, baby.” Sara looked up from her phone with a snort. Mila grabbed her around the waist, Tarzan-style. Mila fucking loved bowling. “We will crush our enemies, see them driven before us, and hear the lamentations of their pins.”

“Wait. Don’t we want to knock over our own pins?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter for Transforming Into a Slug by Slugdge
> 
> cw: In this chapter, Sara talks about coming out to her family. They are not especially accepting and it is a source of friction between her and her family, Mickey in particular.


	6. The Wolf Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I surprised myself and got a chapter of this finished. in this chapter: a haircut, and the long-awaited (by me, at least) introduction of Sara's roommate and her boyfriend.  
> This is apparently just the thing I write when I'm not real concerned about plot and just want to hang out with some cool folks who are nice to each other and make dumb jokes.

Mila and Sara spent a lazy Christmas morning on the couch, feet in each other’s laps, alternating episodes of Mindhunter with Youtube videos of red pandas and wombats. Eventually, though, they were feeling ambitious enough to move. It was funny how exhausting emotions were, Mila thought, even when they were largely second hand. When Sara unfurled herself to stand, stretching, in front of Mila on the couch, she couldn’t help herself, nuzzling her face into the soft curve of Sara’s waist revealed by the crop top she had borrowed from Mila for lounging purposes. Sara giggled softly and swatted at Mila’s head when she blew a raspberry against her side. 

“Come on, get up, you weirdo.” She let her fingers tangle in Mila’s hair scratched at her scalp and Mila pressed her face closer, wishing she could purr. 

“Mmf. Don’t wanna get up. Want more snuggles.” 

“Come on, love, we have to make coleslaw.” 

Mila sat back, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, “Right, yes, coleslaw is very important.” She pouted. “I can easily see why you would choose cabbage over me.” 

Sara groaned, “It was your idea. You know you would be upset if you missed an opportunity to show of your culinary skills.” Sara hadn’t stopped fooling with her hair. 

“Would you help me with something, after that?” Mila asked, leaning into the touch. 

“Mm. Anything.” 

“I need a trim, and I always mess up when I try to do it myself.” She wasn’t sure why asking made her nervous. Megs had been very vocal about liking Mila’s hair long, about how good she looked when she femmed it up. Sara didn’t seem like she would try to control her appearance, even subtly, but Mila couldn’t shake the feeling that asking was a risk. 

“Of course, as long as you don't need anything too fancy. I used to trim Mickey's, before he got too fancy for me. Just on the undercut?” 

“Um, actually, I was thinking of going shorter on top, too.” 

Sara frowned, and Mila’s heart plummeted. “I _think_ I can do that. Are you sure you trust me? I don’t want to screw up your hair.” She was looking at Mila’s hair with more purpose, now, the frown still on her face, but now, obviously, a deep-in-thought frown. “Yeah. Yeah, I can definitely help with that. That’s gonna look so good on you.” 

Sara was totally right about showing off. Mila was proud of her propriety coleslaw recipe, which involved red cabbage, celery, apples, vinegar, and lots of dill, among other ingredients that Mila would refuse to disclose because she could never remember what she’d actually put in the thing. Sara proved herself competent in the kitchen, showing off pretty decent knife skills despite her protests otherwise, and they had the bowl of slaw chilling in the fridge in record time. 

Shortly thereafter, Mila was sitting on the toilet lid, towel wrapped around her shoulders while Mila scrolled through Pinterest, showing Mila the occasional picture for approval. Mila hadn’t expected to learn the difference between a fade and a taper, much less a pompadour, quiff, and crop. She hadn’t known there was so much to know about short haircuts, but apparently Sara had a barber somewhere in the family. 

“Oh, yeah. This is the one. What do you think?” Sara held out her phone. The person on the screen didn’t look anything like Mila, all square jawed and masculine, stubble decorating the angles of their face, but the haircut, yeah, that could work. 

“Ok, yeah. Let’s do it.” 

Sara bounced on her toes as she reached across Mila to plug in the clippers. 

“Wow.” Mila turned her head and craned her neck. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not done, yet. Still gotta trim the wolf pussy.” 

“The what?” 

“Sorry. That's crude. I had a friend that called this -” she traced two fingers down the back of Mila’s neck where the thin lines of scruffy hair trailed down on either side of her cervical vertebrae “- the ‘wolf pussy.’ Please don’t ask me why.” 

Mila went back to her examination, fluffing up the top, sticking her lower jaw out a little, imagining her face just a bit less round, less soft. 

“Please say something.” 

“Wow.” 

“Something other than ‘wow.’ I’m kinda freaking out.”

“I fucking love it. Thank you.” 

“Oh thank the goddess.” Sara let out a whoosh of breath. “I think you look fucking badass. Sit back down, I need to trim your neck, and then we should clean you up.” 

They ended up in the shower together, Mila on her knees with her head between Sara’s thighs, even after all the little shards of hair were long since washed off her shoulders and the hot water had run out. They were a little late to the potluck. 

  
~~  


Somehow, Mila hadn’t actually been to Sara’s apartment yet. They’d done most of their hanging out at Mila’s place, enjoying the luxury of having a space to themselves, even if Mila’s glorious roomate-free state was economically untenable. She suppressed a sigh at the thought of finding a new place, but her budget wouldn’t continue to bear living alone and her current place was too small for two people. She’d be moving once her lease was up, there was no way around it. 

She followed Sara down the neat hallways of the American Can Apartments and immediately scratched the complex off of her list of potential residences. She didn’t need the signs pointing the way to the wine bar and the fitness center to know that the rent would be way out of her price range. She’d known that Sara was Old New Orleans, but she wasn’t quite prepared for what that meant in practice. 

Sara dropped back to walk beside her, grabbed her hand and leaned close to Mila’s ear, “I should warn you. My roommate’s boyfriend is a good guy, he’s just kind of a lot. Try not to punch him?” 

“Do I seem like the punching sort?” Mila wasn’t sure whether to be proud that asshole-punching-energy was what she was putting out into the world, or concerned that she seemed generally violent. 

“Well, no, but you haven’t met him, yet.” 

“Wait, he’s not, like, a Nazi or something, right?” 

“Oh god, no, nothing like that. He’s just, well, you’ll see,” she said with a grimace, hand on the doorknob. 

The loft was as swanky as the rest of the building, its industrial origins only showing through in the most stylish way possible, big factory windows admitting the bright winter sunlight and aesthetically crumbly old brickwork. A pretty woman with a dark bob smiled as she stood up from the couch with a languid sort of confidence. 

“You must be Mila, I’ve been hearing a LOT about you,” she said with a wink. Mila quirked an eyebrow at Sara who blushed. 

“I might have mentioned you, a couple of times.” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s nice to meet you, um -” 

“Isabella. Yang. Or Iz, or Izzy. Not Bella. It’s too Twilight for me.” A door closed down the hall, “and that’s JJ,” she said, nodded toward the sound. 

The infamous boyfriend dashed into the main room in sock-feet, skidding on the hardwood floors. It was all very “Risky Business,” and Mila found herself smirking, much against her better judgment. He came to a stop in front of her and flicked his hands up in an elaborate gesture that reminded Mila of being in middle school and trying to teach each other gang signs, although, in this case it was just a pair of J’s. He was shirtless, in a pair of red bermuda shorts, with a white t-shirt slung in the crook of his elbow. “Sorry, I was in the shower, Jean-Jacques Leroy, but you can call me JJ,” he shot some finger guns at her before pulling on his shirt. It was at least a size to small, the better to show off his developed pecs. Before he pulled it down, Mila caught a glimpse of a truly cursed tramp stamp, the poor benighted boy’s initials surrounded by a heavy black “tribal” motif. 

“Do you _always_ have to be shirtless?” Sara groused at him. 

“Oh course, it’s JJ Style!” 

Sara sighed, and Mila elbowed her. “It’s fine. I’m friends with Victor ‘if you haven’t seen my ass, we aren’t really friends’ Nikiforov, remember?” Honestly, if Mila had abs like that she’d never wear a shirt either. She tugged at the band of her sports bra uncomfortably. 

“Oh, that’s right, you’re friends with Victor and Yuri. I know Sara told me, but I forgot how you know them,” said Isabelle as JJ wrapped his hands around her waist a rested her chin on top of her head. It was cute. 

“Oh, I’m in Victor’s band. I just met Yuri a couple of months ago, same time I met Sara, actually.” 

“Damn, how come no one ever invites me to these parties?” JJ complained. 

“Because you go to Regina every time you have a break, probably,” Isabella teased. “JJ has a _crush_ ” she teased. Tipping her head to look up at JJ. 

“Just a little one,” he protested. 

“I guess Victor is pretty hot,” Mila said, trying to sound sympathetic. She guessed it was true, in an objective sort of way. Victor probably ticked all the boxes for people who liked guys. 

“Not on Victor,” Isabella giggled, “on Yuuri.” 

“Oh, that makes way more sense,” said Sara. Mila gave her a look. Sara caught her, “what? Have you seen the boy dance?” 

Mila had not. 

“I know, right?” JJ exclaimed. “Izzy and me took his Latin dance class this semester -” 

“-And JJ hardly looked at me the whole class.” 

“Oh, like you weren’t looking, too.”

“I never said I wasn’t. Katsuki’s got an ass like a couple of cannonballs.” 

“Or bowling balls.” 

“This is what I was warning you about,” Sara murmured to Mila. 

“Are they always like this?” Mila replied, out of the corner of her mouth. 

“Usually worse.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wolf Ritual by Tengger Cavalry (who I highly recommend if Mongolian Folk metal sounds like something you would enjoy).
> 
> Coming soon, a visit home, a springtime festival, and a solution to Mila's housing woes.

**Author's Note:**

> Dreamtheater - A Change of Seasons


End file.
